It's 3pm and I'm nervous. I'm waiting for my chef to pick my sister and I up for work, but today will be different. I have a letter in my hand for him. I'm giving my notice.
For those of you who know me, you know I'm a proud cook working through her apprenticeship. I've been doing this for two years now, and a year ago, I couldn't think of another life. But now....things have changed.
I'm tired.
I'm tired of being exhausted every day. I'm tired of hurting from my toes to my hairline each day.
Right now, we only have two night cooks, my sister and myself, and even though we've had our share of drag em down, knock em out fights at work, we seem to come through things alright. But the six day weeks are killing me.
***********
Chef picks us up, and I hardly say a word on the 15 min drive to work. When we arrive, I ask if I can speak to him. He nods and we head to his office. I hand over the letter, terrified that he will berate me or be angry that I'm leaving him in the lurch.
He shocks me by being completely understanding.
"Adeptus, you are not the first cook to hit this wall, and you will certainly not be the last. I've hit that wall myself, and took nine months off, just to think, and get my shit in order."
"I just worry about how this will look later on," I mumble.
"Don't. You need to do what's best for you. I know you've been turning down shifts at your other job just to be here, and I know that you need to get at least three a month in with them. We'll work your remaining time here so you can at least get in for a few there."
"Thanks Chef. I'm glad you understand. Do I have time to go out for a smoke before we start? I kinda need to balance myself out."
He nods, "Be quick."
I head outside, still shaking and on the edge of tears. I light a smoke and breathe deep.
Smoke finished, I head back into the furnace that will be my home for the next 7 hours. It's a Tuesday, so ladies league is in high gear tonight. I thump down the stairs to the basement where our change area is, grab a jacket and slip it on like I've done so many times in the past few years. I pull on my cut off checks and slip into my kitchen clogs. These shoes have been a lifesaver. So much more comfortable than wearing my high top Cons.
I jet back upstairs, where my sister has already begun tearing through her prep work. I know I'm working hot line tonight while she will work fryers and salads. Chef will bounce around mid line and help us each out when we get overwhelmed.
Tuesday night ladies league has 165 registered players this year, though we very rarely get a full field out. One of our rangers walks through the kitchen, "122 tonight, kids." Oh gods, it's going to be one of THOSE nights.
This is also the first night this year that we're running our full menu, having just run a small pub menu in the past.
5:30 and the orders start to slowly roll in. The three of us savour this time, knowing that the hurt is about to come down. Bending down into the reach in fridge on my end of the line, my back seizes, joy...here we go again. I grit my teeth and push through the pain.
The orders start to come in faster now, and cries of "Oi, Adeptus, you got that Stacked Club yet?", "Aye!" and "Incoming!" are heard every few seconds over the roar of the exhaust and the chatter of the servers and printer.
Eventually, I stop thinking. Auto pilot kicks in, the cooks out there know what I'm talking about. I'm doing things just out of pure instinct, and it feels damn good.
We pump out the orders faster than our servers can pick them up at times, causing a wee bit of a backlog in plating. We page the servers to pick up their food. We know they're getting run hard too though, so it's not so bad. At least they don't have to do it in a 115 degree kitchen.
I get told to head out for a smoke when the orders slow down a minute. I jet outside and almost hit the ground. It's so much nicer and cool out here. The sweat on my body chills me, the world seems to spin. I grab the recycling bin behind me and breathe deep. I guess that's why I got the tattoo on my forearm. It's a constant reminder. So easy to forget when you're running hard all night.
I head back inside to find a few new orders up. Nothing serious though. Specials tonight have been pretty easy to put together, and have been selling well. And then it happens. The one food item I had prayed I wouldn't get tonight. Stir fry.
Damn them! Damn them all!
I sigh, tossing a pan on the stove, and a cast iron sizzle platter in the salamander. The pan on the stove heats quickly as I add sliced peppers, carrots, mushrooms and chicken to the oil already there. Once they cook up, I carefully add some nice rice vermicelli and the honey garlic sauce, cursing softly as the water on the noodles causes burning oil to splash up onto my wrist. Once the server comes in, I set the sizzle platter on a cork base and pour a bit of oil onto it. It starts smoking immediately, I grin. I warn my sister and Chef to step back a moment, and add the noodles, veg and chicken. It sizzles and spits loudly. The server looks nervous. I know they hate serving stir fry about as much as I hate cooking it. After hearing my usual warning of "Don't touch that pan, and for the love of all that's holy, don't let the customer touch it either, they'll lose the skin on their hands," she takes it out, rolling her eyes at me. I wonder if she's ever tried touching it.
The orders finally stop rolling in, and the three of us head outside for what has got to be my favourite part of the night, our debrief. We go over how service went, and plan the prep out for our day shift. We bitch about the servers and smoke. It's our time to cool off and calm down from the adrenaline that has been coursing through our systems to keep us running. Then it's back inside to tear down the line and clean up.
Gods, I'm sore.
But tomorrow is a new day, and I know tomorrow night's service will be slower.
************
I'm going to miss this, the rush, the exhilaration of the non stop running, of knowing that service went well and people went home with full bellies. But I know this is what I need right now. I need a break before I break.
But mark my words. I will be back. I don't think I could ever stop cooking.
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